


Dirty Work

by vanishingact



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angel Sam Winchester, Angel True Forms, Blow Jobs, Bottom Gabriel, Canon-Typical Violence, Elements of Tall Tales and Changing Channels, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Grooming, Human Gabriel, Humor, Janitor Gabriel, M/M, Minor Animal Injury, Minor Injuries, Pansexual Gabriel, Pansexual Sam Winchester, Prophet Gabriel, Protective Sam Winchester, Smut, Supernatural Reverseverse, Top Sam, True Forms, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Winged Sam Winchester, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:16:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5606371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishingact/pseuds/vanishingact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel Novak makes a living cleaning up other people's messes. His personal life he keeps as carefree, ambition-free, and feelings-free as possible. Until, that is, he's unceremoniously called to a new profession-- one that includes an angelic bodyguard and seemingly no other benefits. Cooped up in his apartment, Gabe tries to adjust to this bombshell while Sam warns that he's demon-bait the moment he steps outside. But such close quarters are bound to take a toll on Sam's cool exterior sooner or later...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Introduction

              Crawford Hall had dredged up a truly choice assortment of custodial tasks for him that day.

              Exhibit A: an intensely unhappy raccoon trapped in the dumpster. Gabriel had slanted a two-by-four ramp down there for it and retreated to the relative safety of the first floor men’s room—where he promptly discovered Exhibit B: not just one but _two_ spectacularly clogged toilets. Half an hour and a couple successful flushes later, he made his way back outside to check on his little dumpster-diving friend only to find Exhibit C confronting him in the form of several dozen pink and orange dicks sketched in sidewalk chalk all over the back stairs. You had to hand it to the vandals for their anatomical fidelity, Gabe mused as he power-washed the cheerful swarm of dicks away. Probably art students.

              Only the mid-March thaw made such a thing as power-washing possible. A nasty winter had torn up Springfield with nearly five months of ice storms and wind so cold it numbed his face in seconds while he shoveled treacherous walkways. The blustery 45-degree weather felt almost tropical by contrast, and if Gabe never had to spread another handful of salt it would be too soon.

              It was a little past ten when he finally pushed through his apartment door and flipped the light switch with a practiced elbow (his hands otherwise occupied with a six-pack and large carton of sweet-n-sour chicken). The outdated, darkly paneled kitchen flickered into view under the dim cabinet bulbs, but it looked like the overhead light had burned out again. Gabriel sighed. He didn’t feel like dealing with that now. Doing the bulk of his job after classes meant that Gabe ate, slept, and rose on a late schedule. It could wait till tomorrow.

              He dumped his dinner on the table and whistled into the shadowed silence of the adjoining living room, but no skitter of claws on the linoleum greeted his ears.

              “Wishbone!” he called absently, popping open the take-out container and releasing a curl of sauce-perfumed steam.

              This was met with a keening whine unlike anything Gabe normally heard from the little dog. His stomach sank. Something must have happened. Gabe skirted his favorite recliner, pulling hastily at a table lamp with every expectation of finding Wishbone sporting a broken leg or in the throes of a crippling bellyache.

              What he really didn’t expect to find was a man the size of Paul Fucking Bunyan sitting on the couch and restraining the wriggling terrier with one splayed hand across its chest.

 

              “Son of a bitch!” Gabriel wheezed, staggering back into the end table and knocking the lampshade into a gyrating spin that threw the room before him into disorienting relief.

              The apartment had been done up in a dizzying black and white motif by one seriously taste-impaired landlord at some point in the distant past and, though Gabe had never minded it before (figuring he might as well just roll with the swingin’ bachelor pad look), the whole scene rather resembled something out of a funhouse-themed nightmare when you happened to drop a potential ax murderer into the mix.

              “Woah—hey—uh, take whatever you want,” he gasped at the intruder. “I’ll—I’ll leave right now. Maybe just, uh, lemme have the dog and I’ll leave _right now_.”

              “I’m not here to rob you,” the stranger replied conversationally, titling his chin up and looking for all the world as if he was appraising Gabriel from the inside out.

              He had a sharp jawline, faint dimple in his chin, and hair that would’ve put a Beatle to shame, Gabe noted for the benefit of the sketch artist with whom he’d surely be consulting soon enough. _Yessir, that’s the no-good bastard who beat me to a pulp and stole my dog. The one with the sideburns._

              “I don’t want any trouble,” Gabe informed him, mouth dry. Distantly, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t figure how the guy had broken in. The lock had seemed undamaged when he got home.

              “Neither do I,” the intruder said, sparing a glance for Wishbone, who was struggling more valiantly than ever now. He looked genuinely disappointed by the dog’s urgency to get away. “In fact, I’m here to protect you.”

              “Protect me?” Gabe managed. “Protect me from _what_? My own _dog_?”

              “No,” he snorted with mild derision. “Your demons, mostly.”

 _Oh. Oh, okay_. So the criminal currently occupying his couch was not only qualified to model for this year’s fall lumberjack line, but he had a sparkling collection of delusions to offer as well.

              “Demons, huh? Like… the inner kind, right?” Gabe laughed tentatively. “Alcoholism, porn addiction… nervous rambling…?”

              “I’m not really prepared to tackle those issues.” With a distracted parting scowl, the stranger finally released Wishbone and the sleek little Jack Russell came dashing into Gabe’s arms like a shot. He appeared mercifully unharmed. “Lucky for you, I _am_ prepared to tackle actual servants of Hell.”

              “Well, that is a gold star for the ol’ resume if I ever heard one—” Gabe enthused, head swimming with panic as he fumbled for the doorknob behind his back. For half a second he thought he might just get out of this after all when a hand came to rest on the wood of the door, holding it as fast as a steel bar.

              “Sorry, Gabriel, but you can’t leave. It’s not safe,” the intruder told him from the frankly terrifying proximity of a handsbreadth away. Gabe had no idea how he’d moved so swiftly to block his exit, but the mere physical presence of the guy was enough to make the bottom drop right out of his stomach.

              “You know my name,” he gulped.

              “Sure do. Gabriel L Novak. The ‘L’ doesn’t stand for anything. You can call me Sam, by the way.”

              “… Sam?” Gabe repeated skeptically.

              “Well, _Samuel_.” He said it weird. Three syllables, with the emphasis at the end. Sam-u- _el_. “Nobody pronounces it like that anymore though. Not since the prophet Samuel.” His deep-set eyes narrowed in something that might have been the twitch of a smile. “Now that I think about it, it’s pretty funny that I’ve got a prophet’s name and you’ve got an angel’s.”

              “W-why is that funny?”

              “Because—as you’re gonna see here pretty soon— _I’m_ the angel. And _you’re_ the prophet.”


	2. Angels Don't Wear Plaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes good on his claim of being an angel and Gabe deals with the consequences.

              Gabriel sat in the kitchen, palm gripping and slipping over the cap of his beer for probably the fifth time before he finally twisted it off. He took a pull from it as he glanced at the time display on the microwave. It couldn’t be right that only ten minutes had passed. He felt sure he’d been locked in the clutches of this bad trip for at _least_ an hour.

              Sam dragged a second chair out with a jarring squeal. He sat with his knees spread and his shoulders casually overflowing the confines of the narrow chair back.

              “So… a prophet, huh?” Gabe started. “I don’t recall having any chats with the Big Man Upstairs lately…” He thumbed over his phone in his pocket as he spoke, trying to get it unlocked without looking. Could he navigate blind to dial 911? And, more importantly, would his new pal here feel motivated to strangle him if he heard the voice of the operator issuing from Gabe’s pants?” 

              “No, you wouldn’t have,” Sam concurred with a perfectly straight face. “I should’ve been more specific. You’re one of several _possible_ prophets in your generation. You’ve had no clue of it till now—and might be you never will. But, even so, you wouldn’t ever speak directly to God. No one does that anymore. Besides, different times require different strengths. Some prophets write, some interpret, some dream, some—Gabriel, I can’t let you to do that.”

              “Do what?” Gabe’s hand froze in his pocket.

              “Call for outside help?” Sam hinted with a half-apologetic smirk. “I would only have to incapacitate the officers who responded, and I really don’t want to do that. Gimme the phone.”

              “Not a chance,” Gabe balked. He couldn’t. He couldn’t surrender that easy.

              “Fine,” Sam sighed tolerantly. “Go ahead and take it out of your pocket then.”

              Gabe looked down at the cell under the lip of the table. For all his fidgeting, its screen remained black. He squeezed the power button once, twice. Nothing.

              “What the hell…?” he wondered under his breath.

              “It was a pretty basic thing to disable it.”

              “You weren’t anywhere _near_ my phone.” But, against all logic, it was dead.

              “I told you, dude.” Sam shrugged modestly. “I’m an angel.”

              Before he even knew what he was saying, Gabe heard himself snap back with “Yeah, because angels _totally_ say ‘dude.’ And wear _plaid_. Go on and _prove_ it, nutjob.”

              Sam pressed his lips together, eyebrows raised. “All right. Let’s see… that ache in your neck you’ve had all winter?” he suggested, one hand moving across the table and toward Gabriel in a deliberate, inevitable trajectory. It landed under his ear like a hot branding iron. Gabe didn’t dare move. Perhaps verbally antagonizing his captor had not exactly been the _best_ course of action—

              “It’s gone now, isn’t it?” Sam asked, withdrawing his hand.

              “Of course not, it’s—oh, what in the name of—?”

              Not only had his neck not felt so good in months, it hadn’t felt so good _in his adult life_. The sore creak to the left had gone. And he could roll his head all the way around without a single twinge of pain. Years of wear and tear had just melted away.

              “And then there’s this,” Sam’s voice went on. But not from the same spot he’d occupied only a moment before. He stood all the way in the back hallway now. Gabe gaped at him. _Guy’s some kind of ninja_ , he just had time to think before Sam crashed back into the kitchen chair with a rustling noise and flare of what felt like static electricity in the air.

              Gabe had been looking right at him that time. And he knew for certain that no one alive could move that fast.

              His body felt distant. Sluggish. And the aroma of the sweet-n-sour chicken still sitting to his right was making him feel kind of queasy. “You… you really aren’t human,” he rasped.

              “No.” Sam smiled for real this time. His eyes flared a burning, starry blue.  

              Wishbone growled and slunk between Gabe’s legs.

              “You’re telling me that it all exists? Guardian angels and God and—and _Noah’s Ark_ and all the other crap I thought I left back in Sunday school?” It came out in something like a squeak, but Gabe didn’t care. His throat felt like it was closing up.

              “Noah, yes,” Sam replied with a shrug. “Noah’s Ark? Not so much. More of a fable than anything.”

              “Oh, well, of course!” Gabe barked, cracking fully into a kind of punch-drunk incredulity. “That would be much too fantastical!” He was laughing like he’d just been dragged out of a house fire to watch all his worldly possessions burn.

              “You’re in shock,” Sam ventured, smile faltering. “You should probably lie down.”

              “Lie down? _Lie down_?” Gabriel bolted up, nearly tripping over the dog. He was shaking. “You come into my apartment and—”

 

              Morning.

              He could tell by the irritatingly merry soundscape outside if not the light inside. He’d invested in blackout shades a long time ago. A real blessing during hangovers.

              But this didn’t feel like a hangover.

              Gabe’s satin sheets were tangled around him like a straightjacket. He whipped them off, dragging a hand over his prickly, unwashed face. He still wore his janitor’s blues, he realized with a grimace of distaste. No wonder he’d felt confined.

              Yanking them off into the hamper, he padded into the apartment’s tiny bathroom, the tile cold and clammy under his feet. He rinsed his face and mouth and he was just halfway through taking a much-needed leak when he finally added up the disparate parts of his trauma to remember that there was a rogue angel somewhere in his home.

              It took real fortitude to hold a steady stream after that.

 

              When Gabriel dared open the bedroom door—newly clothed and having resisted the urge to bring the aluminum baseball bat he kept under his bed—it was to find Samuel, Angel of the Lord, puzzling over the feeding instructions on the bag of dog food under the counter.

              “He’s so small,” Sam mused aloud to Gabe as though nothing at all was amiss. His eyes didn’t leave the bag. “I don’t want to overfeed him.”

              Wishbone’s gaze bounced back and forth between them. He didn’t seem to know what to make of this large and obviously terrifying celestial being proposing to serve him breakfast. He remained several yards away from Sam, but his ears had pricked up with interest.

              “There’s a measuring cup in there,” Gabe heard himself croak. _Why_ he said it, he didn’t really know.

              “Oh, sweet,” Sam said brightly, scooping kibble into Wishbone’s bowl. He had to retreat all the way to the refrigerator before the little dog snuffled over to eat, but Sam seemed to take it as a win, nodding in satisfaction.

              “I didn’t know when you might wake up,” he explained. “I admit I hit you a little harder than I meant to.”

              “So you… knocked me out,” Gabe stated woodenly.

              “Well, not in the traditional sense,” Sam said. “Concussions are a real drag. I just told your body to sleep. You were getting too worked up.”

              “You angel-whammied me into unconsciousness then. Whatever.” Something about knowing he had absolutely no way of resisting this power whenever and wherever Sam chose to use it really unnerved him.

              “I won’t do it again, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Sam offered, as if reading his mind. “I just didn’t want you to give yourself a heart attack.”

              “Yeah, thanks _so_ much.” Gabe slumped into half a seat on the arm of the recliner, stomach grumbling and head aching. He still couldn’t quite consider eating, however. “I’m guessing I’m not allowed to go get my morning frappuccino?” he asked hopelessly.

              “No.”

              “Because demons?”

              “Because demons.”

              “Let’s, uh, let’s talk about that, yeah?” Gabe said, studying the weave of his own jeans with a truly uncalled for exactitude. He felt disinclined to look at Sam if he could help it. The angel had a way of filling a room that had nothing to do with his physical size. “You said I’m a potential prophet. I assume I’ve been one my whole life. Why do I just now need protection?”

              “Because a particular faction of demons only just now unraveled the pattern of how prophets come to be,” Sam explained, sounding for all the world as if he were discussing a system glitch on just another Monday morning at the office. “And they’re trying to get their hands on every one they can, all the way down to kids barely out of diapers. They think you can be kept like rats in a lab. They think they can corner the market on prophetic knowledge and gain an advantage over everyone else—including other demons. We’re making sure that _doesn’t_ happen. My garrison’s one of the few permanently stationed on Earth, and we’re used to field work. You could call it the family business.”

              “So there are a bunch of other people all over the world waking up to angels today?”

              “More or less.”

              “How’d you get assigned to me?”

              “I drew the short straw.”

              Gabriel couldn’t tell whether he was joking.

              “Why couldn’t you just watch over me all invisible-like?” he lamented, rubbing uselessly at the throbbing over his right eye. “Leave me in ignorant bliss with my sanity intact?”

              “I tried for a while,” Sam admitted. “Don’t I look even a little familiar?”

              Gabe glanced up. Sam seemed larger than life. A flannel-clad, Midwestern Adonis with a pleasant shrewdness in his eyes and a shoulder-to-waist ratio that could reduce most male models to tears.

              “No, I think I’d remember you,” he quipped dryly.

              “Well, I did my best to blend in with the students. Always made sure to have my face in a book or laptop. But that was before I actually spotted some signs of demonic activity in Springfield. Your apartment’s appropriately warded, but I couldn’t exactly get you to _stay_ in it without revealing myself to you and explaining why.”

              “You can’t keep me here forever,” Gabe pointed out, choosing to focus on the immediacy of that problem rather than thinking too hard about what exactly “signs of demonic activity” entailed. People speaking in tongues? Spinning heads? Sidewalk chalk dicks?

              “That would be a cruel and unusual punishment for both of us, I think,” Sam said with a wry look. “No, I figure this’ll only take a few days for my brothers to clear up. Once they cut this faction at its source, I’ll be out of your hair and you can go back to your mop and broom.”

              “Just like that?” As much as Gabriel had no desire to endure an eternal babysitting from someone who had the nerve to look ten years his junior, the idea that magic incarnate could stroll right into his life for a week and disappear just as quickly alarmed him on some instinctual level. A guy didn’t just mosey on back to the ol’ salt mine after taking part in an angelic war, did he?

              Sam shrugged. He looked as if he was poised to say more, but Wishbone had finished his food and chosen that moment to begin scratching at the door.

              “He needs to go out,” Gabe said numbly.

              “Do you think he’ll let me take him?” Sam asked.

              “I guess he’ll have to. Wishbone! C’mere, buddy.”

              The dog sprinted over with a jingle of tags, bounding into Gabe’s lap. He fished the leash out from the toy basket next to the recliner and attached it. “Here,” he said, handing the leash off to Sam, who had cautiously approached. “There are plastic bags in that cabinet by the door.”

              “Plastic bags?” Sam asked, tilting his head rather like an overgrown puppy himself.

              “Thought you said you’d been on Earth a long time?” Gabriel scoffed. “You’ll figure it out. And get my coffee while you’re at it, will ya? Extra whipped cream.”


	3. Playing Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe sees firsthand exactly why escape is not an option.

              Gabe couldn’t believe Sam had left him alone so easily.

              He watched from the window as the angel made his way down the street with a warily trotting Wishbone, waiting until they rounded the corner before retrieving his phone and plugging it in. It sat there like a brick, no charging light, no happy buzz of life. It would make for a very expensive paperweight, Gabriel fumed as he went for his laptop in the bedroom. When it gave its customary singsong tone of powering up, he cackled in triumph—only to discover he had no internet access. He could play all the Solitaire and process all the word documents he wanted, he supposed, but he had no way of contacting any friends or authorities.

              But that raised the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: did he believe everything Sam had told him? If he left the apartment, _would_ he run straight into a mob of cloven-hooved, serpent-tongued kidnappers? It was hard to fathom, yet Sam had clearly demonstrated himself superhuman and pretty harmless so far. As a matter of principle, Gabe tried the door anyway. To his amazement, it pulled open without resistance.

              And, yet, instead of waltzing right out, Gabriel found himself studying the threshold and jamb, wondering how exactly Sam expected it to withstand invading monsters. He bent to inspect the lock and caught a glint of shine off the scuffed wood above it. Swinging the door to and fro to play with the light angle, he managed to discern definite symbols painted—minute and nearly invisible—all along the edge of the door, the frame, and the floor in between. Glue, maybe, or clear nail polish, he thought.

              “Something the matter with your door, mister?” a sweet-as-pie voice inquired.

              Jerking to attention, Gabriel’s eyes panned up a startlingly glossy and pale expanse of legs to meet with the heart-shaped face of their owner—a girl no more than 20, her finger twirling through curly dark hair. Despite the season, she wore a gauzy cream dress with a plunging neckline.

              “Well, it, uh, it sticks sometimes. Wanted to mention it to management,” he replied, taking a step back.

              Gabe had grown accustomed to sharing his hallways and stairwells with a constantly shifting array of kids. Any reasonably-priced apartment complex within walking distance of campus naturally reeled in constant business from students. But he didn’t recognize this one.

              “I’m sure you can fix it yourself. You look so… capable,” she said, shifting her weight from one booted foot to the other. Her thighs rubbed together in a completely unnecessary way.

              “Well, I am fairly handy…”

              “Mmhm,” she practically purred, worrying a lip between perfectly white teeth. “I thought so. I’ve got a new curtain rod to hang back at my place. But power tools aren’t really my thing. Think you could lend me a hand with the drilling?”

              It should have made him feel like the lead in the latest installment of Casa Erotica. _Busty co-ed seduces school janitor on his own doorstep! Hot hot hot!_ Gabriel Novak proudly thrived on such contrived thrills, but something about this particular vision of womanhood before him had his blood pounding in all the wrong ways.

              “Are you… doing this on a dare or something?” he ventured.

              “Can’t a girl honestly admire a man?” she pouted.

              “Sure,” Gabe allowed. “Absolutely. Why don’t you just, uh, step on in for a second while I get my toolbox?”

              She opened her mouth as if to respond, her white, white teeth bared in a tight grin as she flounced forward—and stopped just short of the threshold. A flicker of rage passed through her young features like an anomalous screech in a radio station. Gabe recoiled, but she came no further.

              “I hear my roommate calling me,” she hissed—and hurried out of sight down the silent hallway without another word.

              Gabe closed the door, backed slowly away, and went to sit in the center of the couch. He didn’t move until he heard Sam’s heavy footsteps returning.

              “I guess this is a frappuccino,” the angel muttered, depositing a frothy concoction on the counter and bending to release Wishbone. “Don’t people usually like hot coffee in the winter? Hey? Gabriel? Did you hear me?”

              “Sam, what do demons look like?” Gabe asked without looking up.

              “To you? Human.”

              “That’s what I was afraid of.”

              “Sometimes with black or red eyes, but—wait, why do you say that?”

              “Because I think I just met one.”

              “What?” Sam snapped. “When? What happened?”

              “A… girl… showed up at the door. Very cute and acting like something out of a cheesy movie. But I had a bad feeling about her. When I suggested she come in, she flinched and ran off. I found your protection symbols, by the way. Subtle.”

              Sam blew out a great breath, face pinched. “They've moved in quicker than I thought. It was good you didn’t leave the apartment. What gave her away?”

              “I dunno—” Gabe started, but suddenly realized he did. It bubbled up out of his subconscious, raw and primal. “It was her _smell_. She didn’t smell like a person.”

              “Was it sulfur? Rotten eggs?” Sam pressed.

              “More like… like a gas leak.”

              “Hmph,” Sam acknowledged. “She’s still trailing the winds of Hell after her. Probably her first time topside. I’ll kill her when she comes back.”

              “ _When_ she comes back?”

              “She played nice first. Now she’ll play mean. Don’t worry about it.”

              “Don’t—don’t _worry_ about it? Wow, how reassuring. You’ve got a real way with words, Sam.” Gabe sunk sideways in a dramatic face-plant to the couch. “This is insane,” he groaned into the cushion.

              “Just drink your horrible coffee and relax. You don’t have to do anything except wait this out.” A hand dropped into Gabe’s limited line of sight, holding the plastic cup.

              He took it gingerly. “Thanks. I didn’t actually expect you to buy me one, y’know.”

              Sam made no response. When Gabe glanced up, he saw the angel had moved to the window, still and imposing as a suit of armor.

              Gabriel sipped listlessly at the drink. The familiarity of it helped. “I guess I need to call in to work,” he realized a minute later. “Only _someone’s_ trashed my phone.”

              “Yeah, sorry,” Sam replied. He didn’t sound particularly penitent. “You can use mine.”

              “You have a cell phone?”

              “I’m an angel, not a dinosaur.” He tossed a slim smartphone into Gabe’s cupped palms. “Keep it businesslike.”

              “No worries there,” Gabe grumbled. What would be the point of doing otherwise? Alerting the police to his actual predicament would probably only result in getting him committed somewhere. Somewhere that would not do such a neat job of defending him when demons came knocking again. Sticking with Sam, as weird as the arrangement was, represented his best bet.

              He struggled to recall the number of the university’s head of maintenance from rote memory, but got it after one errant call to an Indian restaurant on the other side of town. “Hey, Frank? Listen, I’m sorry for the short notice, but I’m gonna need somebody to take Crawford Hall tonight. What? Yeah. Yeah. Me? Oh, I ate some majorly shady take-out and—man, I don’t even wanna talk about it. I’m telling you, I’ve lost five pounds already.” He faked a muffled belching gag into the phone. “Ugh. _Uh_ , I gotta go. Thanks, Frank. You’re a live saver.” He hung up with a flourish and returned the phone to Sam.

              “So, uh, what am I supposed to do all day?” he ventured after a few moments of silence.

              “Makes no difference to me. Whatever you’d normally do.”

              Somehow Gabe felt pretty sure Sam didn’t want to see him sliding across the linoleum in his underwear and socks while lip-syncing 80s pop songs to the dog. TV it was.


	4. Laughing Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The demons become more of an inconvenience. Meanwhile, Sam starts to open up.

              “How can you watch this? It’s all fake, y’know,” Sam observed an hour later, his face locked in a grimace of secondhand embarrassment.

              “C’mon, it’s hilarious!” Gabriel protested, gesticulating excitedly at the screen with the remaining half of the bagel he munched on.

              “It’s sick. And stupid,” Sam sniffed. For such a badass guy, he looked very nearly prissy, Gabe thought. “Besides, the subtitles are totally inaccurate.”

              “You know Japanese?” Gabe asked with a raised eyebrow.

              “I know every language,” Sam replied distractedly, wincing as yet another unlucky game show contestant earned himself a catapult blow to the crotch with a wrong answer. The host went wild. _Nu-u-utcracker_! he shouted in English as the red-faced contestant doubled over.

              “Fine, I think I’ve seen this one already anyway.” Gabe zipped through the channels, licking the last bit of cinnamon sugar cream cheese from his fingers as he rejected a slew of soaps and forensic cop procedurals. “There,” he finally announced, settling back into the couch cushions.

              “This?” Sam sneered. “Gabriel, it has a _laugh_ _track_.”

              “Lots of good shows have a laugh track!”

              “Dude, the set looks like it’s made of cardboard and the actors keep schmoozing to the camera every time they crack a joke.”

              “So I have cheap taste. Sue me.” Gabe shrugged, smiling at the admittedly third-rate sitcom’s unlikely hijinks.

              “I shudder to think what would happen if you ever emerged as a writing prophet. Your gospel would probably take the form of bad puns.”

              “Ooh, could I do that?”

              “Oh my God.” Sam rubbed his eyes, mouth twitching into a regretful smile. “Well, at least you’re in better spirits.”

              And he was, really. Gabe had been told by many more sensitive souls that he possessed an almost offensive resilience. Give him a few self-indulgences, a few laughs, and he could bounce back from nearly anything. “Speaking of spirits, can you stop at the liquor store next time you go out?”

              “Just because this place is shielded doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep your wits about you,” Sam chided.

              “Oh, believe me, I only get wittier with a liberal application of Kahlua.”

              Sam started to reply, but paused mid-breath. He snapped up the remote control and muted the television.

              “Whoa, it’s not _that_ bad,” Gabe huffed.

              “Shut up. There are demons nearby. Stay here and—” The angel rose, crossed to the kitchen, and banged around until he turned up the bulk canister of salt. He handed it to Gabriel. “Just in case. Demons hate salt. I’ve also inscribed blessings on the pipes so the water coming out of any tap should be holy. They’re not fans of that either.”

              “My shower sprays holy water now?” Gabe muttered, turning the salt over in his hands. “Gotta say, that is really going to kill the mood in there.”

              But Sam wasn’t listening. He’d gravitated to one of the side windows—the ones that looked out mostly on a brick wall but also on the alley below. “There they are,” he practically growled. A long silver spike of a blade materialized seemingly from nowhere in his hand.

              Gabe stood to peer around the angel. Two young men wearing brash displays of the school colors stood talking below. “Wait, those guys? Sam, your demon radar is on the fritz. I know them. Tony and, uh—” He snapped his fingers, thinking. “Morgan. They live down the hall. They’re definitely human.”

              But Sam only gave him a quizzical, pitying look. “Gabriel, did you think that demon you met earlier pulled her disguise out of thin air? Demons look human _because they take the bodies of humans_. Unfortunately, possession is one of the things all your religious fanatics and movies have gotten right.”

              “Oh.” Gabe felt his gorge rise at the very idea of something else having the ability to slink around in his skin, to speak with his tongue. He stepped back from the window. “But… but if you kill those dickbags down there, you’ll kill their hosts, too, won’t you? Unless you can, y’know… heal them real fast afterwards?”

              “I used to try,” Sam mused. “But it never worked. Something about a demon dying while they’re still wrapped up with a host’s mind tends to fry it. They’d always just lie there with their souls desperate to get away. So I let them. And I don’t try anymore.”

              Gabe frowned, staring at the brutally efficient three-sided blade in Sam’s hand. The light glinted strangely off it.

              “If it helps, I can tell that your neighbors down there are already dead. Demons ride their meatsuits pretty hard. The one looks like he felt the need to stop a car with his body at some point. The demon within holds the bones and flesh together for their own sake, but they don’t actually heal.”

              “So… you’re just going to stab them in the alley? In broad daylight?”

              “I’ll be quick.”

              And with that, Sam lifted the window open as far as it would go, hitched a foot up onto the sill, and launched himself into the narrow corridor of open air beyond.

              Gabe gasped, rushing forward. When he looked down, it was to see the briefest flash and flap of two enormous wings, their feathers bright as new pennies, their breadth more on par with a small aircraft than a bird.

              And then they were gone, and Sam was amongst the snarling demons, their own weapons coming to light from the confines of jackets and waistbands. They fought like vicious dogs in short, snapping movements, baiting and dodging the much larger angel. Sam, by contrast, moved with liquid, arcing ease, his every lunge imbued with purpose. It was obvious to Gabe—who had no more combat analysis under his belt that what he’d gleaned from martial arts flicks—that the demons’ goal was to frustrate Sam only long enough to escape, nothing more. They didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of taking him down.

              As Sam’s blade slid home through the Demon-Formerly-Known-As-Morgan’s chest, the other took the opportunity to duck under his arm, making a break for the main street.

              Gabe cringed in dismay. And without even making a conscious decision about it, he found he had poured out a heap of salt into his hand and urgently flung it in a finely-falling spray from the window.

              The demon hissed in pain, his skin flushing an angry, freckled red as the tiny grains hit it all at once. He stumbled and threw up his clothed arm to protect his face as he ran and Gabe threw more after him. Some hit—a lot didn’t—but it was all the delay Sam needed to spin around, snag him by the back of his collar, and slam the blade between his shoulders. A terrible flame-colored glow welled up in the demon’s mouth and eye sockets. For a brief moment, he looked like a living jack-o-lantern before he tumbled, still and dark, to the damp ground.

              Sam took a quick survey of his work, hauled both corpses up like sacks of potatoes, and promptly disappeared with them.

 

              “Holy _fuck_ ,” was all Gabe could manage when Sam returned a minute later, popping into the kitchen and tossing his jacket over a chair like he’d just returned from a refreshing walk to the freakin’ library or something.

              “Piece of cake,” Sam said, crouching down to scratch Wishbone’s ears. The terrier weaved clear and retreated to the bedroom. “Though I liked your quick thinking with the salt. It would’ve been inconvenient to kill him if he’d gotten out in the open.”

              “Where’d you dump the bodies?”

              “Far away.”

              “Somewhere they’ll eventually be found? So those kids’ families can at least know?”

              “Mm. Maybe.”

              “You’re kind of heartless for an angel, aren’t you?”

              Sam laughed. A big, light, boyish sound that took Gabe by surprise.

              “Uh, how is that funny?” He felt rather as if he was being laughed _at_.

              “I’m sorry—” Sam waved, begging Gabe’s patience while he composed himself. “It’s just—oh wow, you don’t know angels, man. They’re ruthless and cold as ice. I get my ass chewed out all the time for caring _too_ _much_. I’m the token bleeding heart of the garrison.”

              “Seriously?”

              “Seriously. A little jaded, maybe, but nothing like what you’d see from some of my brothers. Besides, you enjoy watching guys get whacked in the balls. You’re not exactly the poster child for empathy here, Mr. Novak.”

              “Hey, you said it yourself—that’s fake. This isn’t. Anything can be funny until it’s real.”

              “Yeah,” Sam admitted, looking at least a little abashed. “But you have to understand it’s kinda like someone getting upset with _you_ for wiping out a few good bacteria while you kill all the bad every day at work. Angels see things on a whole different scale, Gabriel.”

              “So is that all you see when you look at me?” Gabe asked, blinking pointedly. “A germ who can talk?”

              Sam’s face faltered. “No,” he said, more quietly now. “No. Oddly enough, I like you.”

              The afternoon light had slanted away so that it no longer came slanting harshly into the kitchen. Though the sky still showed white as paper with a kind of late winter minimalism, the apartment itself had slipped into warm gray shadow. In that moment of stillness, Gabe couldn’t help but remember the sheer fucking _majesty_ of those wings he felt certain he’d glimpsed earlier. Sam stood there now looking like an average—well, really, a pretty _above_ average—Joe, but Gabe knew now a piece of what lay wrapped up inside. It had solidified his understanding of Sam as an angel unlike the healing or even the teleportation had.

              “I like your dog, too,” Sam added with a brief chuckle, effectively breaking the spell. “And he’s an even smaller germ than you.”

              Gabe laughed back despite himself. “Hate to break it to you, but he’s not your biggest fan. I think he can tell you’re not people.”

              “Animals usually can. Dogs particularly. They’re one of humanity’s best inventions, dogs.”

              “I’ll drink to that.”

              “Will you? How ‘bout a beer? Humanity’s other best invention?” Sam offered, holding a hand out toward the fridge. “I like one sometimes myself.”

              “Really? What’s the point?” Gabe wondered as Sam popped the caps on two bottles and handed one over.

              “I don’t know. I can’t really get drunk without downing a whole brewery. But I like what beer… represents.” He tipped back a third of his at once and went to sit in the recliner.

              “Sam, can I ask you something?” Gabe plucked up the nerve to ask after a few cold, grounding swallows.

              “You’ve been asking me all kinds of things.”

              “Yeah, but this is more personal.”

              “Shoot.”

              “That’s not your real face, is it? You have to borrow a human body, too, don’t you? Like the demons.” He didn’t know how he knew. Maybe just the realization of how much those wings didn’t _fit_ with the skin and muscle of the rest of him. Like a soaring, priceless piece of Renaissance architecture grafted onto an ordinary Cape Cod house.

              Sam picked at the label on his beer, gazing into his own lap. “Yeah. I do.”

              “How did the body feel about that?”

              “Unlike demons, angels can’t possess a vessel without consent. He was overwhelmed with life and searching for meaning when I found him. He didn’t mind.”  

              “How long ago?”

              “’83.”

              “What, like… 1683? 83 BC?”

              Sam sniffed. Half a laugh. “No. 1983.”

              “Well, criminy, that’s practically yesterday!” Gabe crowed, only to have the realization dampened with a chilling thought. “Wait, is he still… _in there_ with you?”

              “No, he died. Years ago. An accident I’m not proud of. Sometimes I miss his advice.”

              “Oh. I’m sorry. So… can you show me what you look like _without_ the sheep’s clothing?”

              “Not if you want to keep your eyeballs.”

              “Well, I am pretty attached to them.”

              “I’m serious, Gabriel. The trueform of a demon is incomprehensibly repulsive, but a human can endure seeing it. The trueform of an angel, on the other hand, is a thousand times worse.”

              Gabe made a face. “I don’t get it. You’re telling me angels are… ugly?” The wings had looked awfully fine to him.

              “More like so beautiful it’s appalling.”

              If that was supposed to deter him, it couldn’t have done a worse job. “So describe it for me,” Gabe pressed. “Unless my ears will melt just hearing about it?”

              Sam gave his bottle of beer a crooked half-smile. “Luckily, no. Well, to start with, my wings are nearly a thousand feet across.”

              Gabe whistled. Wishbone poked his head in from the bedroom, thinking he’d been summoned, only to give a low _ruff_ at Sam and disappear again.

              “And I'm about as tall as you'd expect something with a thousand foot wingspan to be,” Sam continued. “I have an arching neck with a long mane. My robe is made of bronze scales and it chimes everywhere I go. My arms are covered with constantly changing designs, but there are always eyes in the designs, and they can... well, they can see. I have falcon claws on my feet. And antlers on my head.”

              “Wha—” Gabe gaped, stifling an involuntary snort. “Are you pulling my leg?”

              “No, I have actual talons.”

              “I’m talking about the _antlers_.”

              Sam scowled. “You wouldn’t laugh if you could see them, Gabriel.”

              But Gabe couldn’t control his face a second longer. He bit his lip hard, cheeks twitching with mirth. “Okay, okay, whatever you say there—” he faltered, spitting out a laugh “— _Moose_.” 

              He’d never seen a more dramatic eye-roll in his life.


	5. Where Were You When

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe continues to get to know Sam... right up until he forgets the most important thing Sam's told him.

              Still, that night as Gabriel tossed around in his oversized bed, punching at pillows that had never felt so uncomfortable before and trying not to envision warped, cackling demon faces at his windows, he drew together a real picture of Sam’s trueform in his head.

              Monstrous and elegant, it didn’t at all fit with the doe-eyed, harp-playing image so beloved of greeting cards and made-for-TV Christmas specials. Not to mention Sam had probably simplified it greatly for his understanding. He hadn’t even _tried_ to describe his face, Gabe recalled. For all he knew, it could be humanoid, or equine, or maybe just a shifting collection of stars….

              Did the angel even know Gabe had seen his wings? How secret were they? Would they feel like feathers to his mortal hand or would they burn like boiling lava?

              Of course, it made no difference either way. Gabe was pretty sure he shouldn’t even be thinking about touching an angel’s wings. Or touching an angel at all.

              And yet… it was entertaining.

              Did Sam even appreciate that fine-ass body he’d claimed? Did he ever have any fun with it? Combined with his super-powered perception and control, he could surely turn any willing human to quivering, sated mush over the course of _hours_ ….

_Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it. He can probably read your mind from the living room._

              But Gabriel had always had a terrible habit of thinking about whatever he most shouldn’t.

              He suffered for a good long while, twisting and turning until he lay like a frustrated burrito in the sheets, finally springing out of bed to crank on the shower and stand under a freezing spray of holy water until he felt sufficiently miserable that the very idea of sex had slipped quite far down his mental priority list.

 

              Aaand, seven hours later: nothing like some good ol’ fashioned morning wood to dial up the anxiety again.

              Gabriel rolled onto his stomach, hugging a pillow and trying to will away the warm, urgent _want_ his body had so helpfully decided to conjure for him.

              He’d just hit a longer dry spell than he was accustomed to, Gabe reminded himself. The bad winter had made going out less than desirable most weekends, and even when he’d considered texting the handful of people he knew were usually down for a hook-up, it had ultimately been easier to just crash on the couch with hot chocolate while the sleet came down in torrents outside. Spring would set him right for sure. Women would buy new outfits and flock back to the cafes and bookstores of the world. Guys would play overly competitive games of shirtless Frisbee in the park, just waiting to “accidentally” crash into him. Wishbone would once again star as the babe magnet he was born to be, buttering up attractive strangers for Gabe’s flirting pleasure.

              In short, he definitely _didn’t_ need to concern himself with the very large, very hot angel currently sharing his apartment who was totally capable of slaying bad guys with one hand while holding him Lois-Lane-style with the other.

              Like, at all.

              When Gabe emerged from the bedroom, he found the apartment empty of both Sam and Wishbone. A mixture of stabbing fear and elation at the unexpected privacy coursed through him, but it was not to hold sway for long. Footsteps in the hallway announced Sam’s return almost immediately.

              “No wicked temptresses at your door this morning?” he asked, unclipping the dog from his leash and sliding a mouthwateringly greasy paper bag from the bakery down the street across the counter toward Gabe.

              “No,” Gabe replied, unwrapping a sinfully sticky jelly doughnut lashed with icing. “Not unless you’re referring to this delicacy right here.”

              Sam smiled. “It looked like something you’d enjoy.”

              “A good angel— _mm_ —shouldn’t encourage people’s vices,” Gabe said around his first bite. Raspberry filling. The best.

              “There are worse things than a sweet tooth. Hey, they also sold these really nice homemade dog biscuits,” Sam added. “I _may_ have given Wishbone one. Or… five.”

              “Ah, yes, appease his wrath with treats,” Gabe sniggered. “Wait—” He licked a smear of icing from the corner of his mouth. “—that’s not what you’re doing with me, is it? Do you have bad news or something?”

              Sam huffed and went to sit down. “Not at all. I didn’t sense any disturbances during the night. And I haven’t seen another demon yet. I think they’ve drawn back to wait.”

              “Well, that’s just peachy. You don’t suppose I could… go out at all?”

              “Gabriel, that’s exactly what they’re waiting for. A _mistake_.”

              “But it’s _Friday_ , Sam. A fella needs some human companionship.”

              “If you mean someone to sleep with, I think you can go without for a few days.”

              “ _Tch_ ,” Gabe clucked, pouring himself a glass of juice. “You don’t know that. Maybe my prophetic powers can only reveal themselves through the medium of sexual roleplay—”

              “I highly doubt it.”

              “—and my first prophecy will reveal how we defeat the boss demon. Don’t deny an artist his canvas, Sam.”

              “Well, that would certainly confirm my brother’s theory of God’s very questionable sense of humor.” Sam smirked. “Do you have any particular preference when it comes to your ‘prophesying’ partners?”

              “Not at all. I’m an equal-opportunity kind of lover,” Gabriel said truthfully. “Why, are you planning on delivering one all gift-wrapped like this doughnut?”

              “No. Just curious.” And, with that, Sam took up a copy of the Weekly World News sitting on the coffee table and commenced reading about a Bigfoot sighting at an Omaha mall.

 

              Gabe called in sick again—this time with a tale of his sheer exhaustion and dehydration from the food poisoning—and settled into a strangely companionable weekend with Sam. The fire alarm sounded no less than three times on Saturday, but whether this represented an epidemic of burnt microwave popcorn in the building or a demonic attempt to literally smoke them out, Sam and Gabe stayed put. They watched several movies and played a whole lot of _Where Were You When:_

              “Kennedy was shot?” Gabe posed early Sunday evening, bare feet crossed over the arm of the couch as he repeatedly tossed a tennis ball against the wall for Wishbone.

              “In Miami, waiting to rendezvous with another angel in my garrison. I saw it on TV like everyone else.”

              “What about when Rome fell?”

              “I was there. Repaying a favor to a reaper. The streets were filled with reapers then. Dude, why don’t you ever ask about any happy stuff?”

              “All right, all right.” Gabe rolled his eyes. “Where were you when Jesus was born?”

              “In the Parthian Empire—you’d know it as Persia—persuading a demon to release a young woman from the contract she’d made with him. I heard about it on Angel Radio though.”

              “On Angel _what_?” Gabe asked, lolling his head around to stare at Sam.

              “We didn’t call it that then, of course, but it’s a telepathic connection shared by all angels. We can broadcast to each other across lightyears as easy as I’m talking to you right now.”

              Gabe thought about that for a minute while the TV flickered away on mute. He barely registered whatever garish commercial was silently screaming for his attention now.

              “Y’know, I keep expecting you to answer at least once that you were in Heaven when something happened, but you never do,” he eventually observed. “It’s always ‘a church in Mexico City’ or ‘the Library of Alexandria’ or ‘watching the Mars rover.’ When was the last time you were there, Sam? When was the last time you were home?”

              Sam didn’t answer right away. He scooped up the slimy tennis ball from between the panting dog’s paws and threw it again. Wishbone bounded after it and actually returned to Sam for once, his little face terribly serious as he deposited the ball at the angel’s scuffed work boots.

              “Good boy,” Gabriel encouraged in a low voice from the couch. “So? When was it?”

              “About 3,000 years ago. Give or take,” Sam finally said.

              “ _3,000 years_?” Gabe sputtered, the small victory with Wishbone forgotten. “God, why? Is it difficult to get back once you’ve flown the coop or something?”

              “Not at all. But I’m stationed here. My orders have never been recalled.”

              “But—”

              “I’m not wanted there, Gabe,” Sam interrupted. His voice dropped like a stone into cold water. Firm and dead.

              “What does that mean? Why the hell not?” All at once, he felt furious on the angel’s behalf. He couldn’t imagine anyone denying Sam anything.

              Sam sighed. “Traveling on Earth for as long as I have… it’s considered dirty work. No one in Heaven is in much of a hurry to associate with anyone in my garrison, but me least of all. I think too much. I talk and act and feel too much like a human. I’ve lived in a vessel so long I’m not sure I want to be without one. It’s… distasteful. It’s unnatural.”

              “If it’s so unnatural, why can angels even take vessels?” Gabe fumed. “Why send you here and then treat you like a leper _for doing your damn job too well_? Angels are asshats. Screw ‘em. You’re the best angel I know.”

              “I’m the only angel you know,” Sam replied mildly. But his shoulders had hunched up higher around his ears. “And vessels are meant to be a means to an end. We’re not supposed to enjoy them.”

              “But you do?” Gabe breathed, sitting up a little straighter. “Enjoy it?”

              A loud knock interrupted just then. Wishbone dropped his ball and took up a yapping refrain, dancing around the door.

              “That’ll be your dinner,” Sam said. “I’ll get it.”

              “Thanks,” Gabriel returned absently, swinging his feet down to the floor and heading to the kitchen for a plate and napkin. The savory, hot pineapple scent of the Hawaiian pizza he’d ordered wafted in the moment Sam opened the door to accept it and hand the delivery boy several bills. Where he got his money Gabe kept forgetting to ask.

              “Have a good one,” Gabe heard the kid say, followed by the ding of the rumbly old elevator as he left.

              “Oh, crap,” Sam spat suddenly.

              Gabe turned. “What?”

              “He just darted past me as I went to close the door,” Sam lamented, sliding the pizza box onto the table and turning back. “I’m sorry. I’ll—”

              “Wishbone? Dammit. Lemme get him,” Gabe replied, running out without thinking any further than the fact that Sam had just made such progress with the dog—progress that might very well be undone by the angel chasing and capturing him in the hall.

              “Get back here,” he called after the loose terrier, spotting him at the end of the corridor where the stairwell yawned wide into darkness. Wishbone was barking like mad, darting side-to-side in a small arc as if challenging a larger, invisible dog. “Seriously—”

              “Gabriel, no!” Sam’s voice shouted after him. And a second later Gabe realized why. He’d blundered right out of the safe oasis of the apartment, its charms and wards lying several yards behind him even as a sickeningly familiar head of springy dark hair swayed into view up the steps.


	6. Playing Mean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little rough.

                The girl—no, the demon—wore black jeans and a practical jacket now, her face hiding nothing of her intent. She seized Wishbone by the scruff of his neck, cutting him off in mid-bark, and sent him sliding halfway down the hall with one low toss of her wiry arm.

                Gabe let out half an angry shout, but there was no time for anything else. In the next instant, her fingers closed around his own throat, digging into the soft places under his jaw and wrenching him around so that he faced outward, crushed against her back-to-front.

                “You stay right where you are, pretty boy,” she spat at Sam, who stood ten feet away, poised for a fight. The angel had a wild look about him, a look so far removed from the calm, cool collection of his previous demon skirmish that it frankly frightened Gabe more than anything. Suspended as he was between two such relentless, inhuman forces, Gabriel shivered even as he gasped for air. “We’ll be on our way now. What’s one probably useless prophet to you, anyway?” she said, just tall enough to peek over Gabe’s shoulder while using the rest of him to shield her smaller body.

                But Sam rushed forward without another second’s hesitation, punching right over Gabriel to connect his fist with the demon’s face. Gabe fell back with her, tumbling down a couple of stairs before saving himself with an outstretched hand on the metal railing.

                The demon girl had no such luck. She rolled down half the flight with a distinct crack, Sam leaping after her. There ensued a treacherous and confusing brawl as both grasped for purchase. Her manicured nails clawed once around Gabe’s bare ankle as he tried to retreat, drawing a few stinging drops of blood. He kicked out, panicking, but the restraining hand spasmed and released him a second later.

                Gabe turned, chest heaving, to see Sam wiping his silver blade on the girl’s jacket. She hung from the crook of his arm like a ragdoll, her teeth still bared in the ghost of a vicious taunt. But the dark wound in her neck showed where he had stabbed her.

                Letting her drop like so much garbage, Sam scooped Gabriel up off the top stair in one fierce, urgent movement, confining him between the concrete wall and his own equally firm—though much warmer—self.

                “I told you _not to leave the apartment_ ,” he seethed, close enough that Gabe could see every whisker of his five o’ clock shadow, could smell the worn-in but immaculately clean scent of his clothes over the stench of demon. One big hand pressed hard against Gabe’s shoulder.

                “I’m sorry,” Gabe said. Or meant to say. In fact, all that came out was an absolutely mortifying sound—something between a wanton gasp and a weak groan. The pain of his all-too-fresh knocks and scratches felt a million miles away. His pulse hammered high in his throat. Gabe was—most improbably—alive. And, as of that moment, more turned on than he could just about ever remember being.

                Sam’s eyes bored into him, wide and darker than Gabe remembered. His lip curled. “Get inside,” he said in a low murmur.

                Gabriel didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled up the stair as Sam turned back to the girl’s body and disappeared with a whisper of feathers. Catching and cradling a whimpering Wishbone in his arms, Gabe rushed back into his apartment where pizza and TV still somehow waited, mocking him like a scene out of another life. He set the dog directly on the counter, frantically petting and soothing him. "It's gonna be okay, buddy," he half-hiccuped in his distress. "It is. Wait just a minute—" 

                “He has a small fracture in his paw,” Sam’s voice rushed up behind him, making Gabe jump. “But he’ll hardly know if I heal it before the shock wears off.”

                Moving clear, Gabe watched the angel run his hands over Wishbone, the dog’s trembling stilling within seconds. His small dark eyes blinked as if coming out of a trance. He panted up at the two of them with a tongue-curling smile and then looked around in pleasant bewilderment as if to ask what he was doing on the kitchen counter.

                “There,” Sam declared, lowering Wishbone to the floor. He wriggled immediately into his bed with a chew toy as if nothing at all had happened. “Good as new.”

                “Thank you,” Gabe gasped. He looked down then, mystified to see his own hand fisted desperately in the fabric of Sam’s shirt.

                Sam looked down, too.

                And that was it. It was all over.

                With a surprisingly raw, human sound, Sam hauled Gabriel off his feet and propelled him against the nearest wall. His hands jumped roughly to Gabe’s tensed thighs, levering him higher and directly into just about the most incapacitating kiss imaginable. Gabriel only had time for the barest gasp before giving way like a well-read book falling open to a favorite page. His initial amazement melted into nothing but a deep, stomach-fluttering heat.

                “This is good, right?” Sam tore himself away the next instant to ask, concern flitting briefly across his face. “I mean, you do want—”

                “Fuck yeah I want,” Gabe blurted, not even caring whether it formed a coherent sentence. His hands were frozen at Sam’s collar and the nape of his neck, his legs hooked haphazardly around the angel’s hips. The friction between them had him wishing for both less and more—the half-painful grind of it a torment even as he grew harder in his jeans.

                Sam’s mouth hitched into a one-dimpled smirk. He huffed and glanced down, looking almost pleasantly surprised by where he found himself. “So you like getting thrown against walls, huh?”

                “Learn something new about yourself every day.”

                And damned if it wasn’t true. The knee-trembling urgency of wall sex had never really figured into Gabriel Novak’s ideal repertoire. Gabe liked to fool around. He liked elaborate fantasies and challenges and maybe even having to stop once or twice while riding out a fit of laughter. He liked to _play_. And, sure, sometimes the action got a little athletic, but it was rarely as straightforward as the way Sam now pressed against him. Rarely as no-nonsense as the wants that Sam’s strength and ease of movement had so abruptly conjured in his mind. The angel’s intensity seemed to demand something tried and true. Something _old-fashioned._ Gabe wanted Sam bearing down on him, wanted to feel his weight and breath and need in a storm of hoarse half-words and half-pain. God help him, he might even want to do it with the lights out.

                “Bedroom?” Sam suggested.

                “You bet.”

                To his immense credit, Sam didn’t put him down. He just braced his forearms under Gabriel, shifted his weight, and carried him there.

                But as soon as they pushed through the door, Sam snorted out a disparaging “Really, Gabe?”

                “What?” Gabriel’s heart sank straight into the sub-basement. What had he done wrong?

                “Red satin sheets?” Sam deadpanned.

                “Wha—hey, they’re classic!” he protested even as Sam deposited him on the foot of the offending bed.

                “They’re a crime against humanity,” Sam chuckled, sidling back between Gabe’s legs and planting his hands flat on the mattress to either side. Gabe had to lean back under his looming frame. “One I will—admittedly—forgive right now.”

                “If they’re such an eyesore, kill the lights.”

                “I can see just as well in the dark, dumbass,” Sam teased. But, all the same, the bedside lamp winked out with a faint fizzle. Something about it gave Gabe chills.

                “Why are you doing this?” he burst out with before he could stop himself.

                It wasn’t a question Gabriel normally felt the need to ask. People adored him. Despite being a little difficult to take seriously (and who the hell wanted that anyway?), he considered himself above-average cute and charming. He possessed few doubts when it came to his sexual appeal. But, despite giving the subject a good deal of thought, Gabe had not actually expected to reel in a fish as big as Sam. He hadn’t _really_ even been trying.

                “I told you,” Sam replied matter-of-factly. “I like you.”

                “And…?”

                “And you nearly got yourself killed and me in a hell of a lot of trouble just now. You’re infuriating. It kinda gets a guy’s blood up.”

                “Yeah?” Gabe ran both hands down Sam’s chest and the sharp cut of his hips to the front of his jeans where the proof of his supposed annoyance lay stiffly outlined.

                “Yeah.” Sam bit off the word like a sharp comeback, a thread of strain in his voice. “Not to mention I haven’t let myself do this in a really long time.” He snatched Gabe’s roaming hands and then they were both collapsing backward onto the mattress in a rush of groping. Sam manhandled Gabriel out of his shirt, unbuttoning and tugging it right out from under him. “Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he panted, throwing off his own flannel and starting in on belts.

                “More like not fast enough,” Gabe assured him as Sam toed off his heavy boots with a double clunk on the fake hardwood floor. With a couple swift kicks, both pairs of jeans had joined them. Gabe really hoped Sam remained too preoccupied to notice she shade of his current choice in boxers. Which more or less matched the sheets. “ _Fuck_ , I want you just _wreck_ me,” he babbled by way of further distraction. It helped that it was true. “I wanna wake up sore in the morning—”  

                “We can arrange that—”  

                “—but _first_ …” Gabe wriggled out from under Sam’s pressing weight, wordlessly coaxing him to turn over on his back amid the pillows.

                Bowing down to mouth at the dip running between Sam’s unsurprisingly perfect abs, Gabriel nuzzled along the happy trail of fine hair below his navel. He snapped the waistband of Sam’s soft boxer-briefs once with his teeth, earning himself an impatient gasp from above and two coarse hands in his hair. He tugged down Sam’s underwear without further ado.

                Gabriel _loved_ performing oral sex. He loved nudging into the tangy wetness of a pussy, legs locked over his shoulders, and he loved sucking cock. He wouldn’t have the pleasure of finishing Sam off right now, but he _had_ to know what the angel felt like on the tongue.

                Full and smooth and incredibly satisfying, as it turned out. Gabe moaned, taking several long, deceptively lazy pulls on Sam’s cock, his eyes fluttering closed. Oh, he’d _missed_ this.

                “ _Ah_ —” Sam gave a low cry. “Wow, you—you really like that, don’t you?” he managed. It wasn’t a provocation and it wasn’t a line. He sounded genuinely impressed.

                “You have no idea.” Gabe moved back up Sam’s body, discarding his boxers as he went. He rummaged through the bedside table drawer until his fingers closed on the new bottle of lube he knew he’d thrown in there awhile back. “Hey, uh, can we—can we bareback this?” he inquired suddenly. “You being superhuman and all that jazz?”

                “Completely safe,” Sam confirmed.

                He looped an arm around Gabe, rolled, and pinned him once again. Sam hooked him behind the knee with one hand, levering it out into a wide splay. Then he was popping the cap on the lube, tearing off the little safety seal with his teeth, and dispensing a generous drizzle. He kissed Gabe hard just before introducing a cool, slick finger to the cleft of his cheeks, the needful, open-mouthed kiss an intoxicating distraction from—

                _Fuck_ , Sam had thick fingers.

                Gabe hummed into Sam's mouth, writhing against the already damp sheets. Sam’s whole, warm hand cupped and kneaded between his legs, middle finger delving in search of his prostate. When he found it, Gabe hissed, grabbing a handful of silky chestnut hair.

                Breaking the kiss, Sam sat back on his haunches, supporting himself with one arm on the mattress. In the dim light spearing in from the window, Gabe made out how his hair had fallen in a messy curtain over his face. He tossed it back with an artful jerk of his head as he worked in a second digit, watching Gabe’s expression with intense, restrained interest.  

                To be fair, Gabe felt pretty sure he was putting on a good show. He was burning up, glazed with sweat and pre-come, his thighs shot through with little tremors whenever Sam really hit the spot. And Sam, for his part, continued to work him over with a kind of tough love, his rhythm and gaze unrelenting no matter how Gabe bucked and whined.

                “I’m good, I’m good,” he gasped when Sam had had three fingers deep in his ass for what felt like plenty long. “I’m ready.”

                “If you say so,” Sam replied, a hint of mischief in his voice. But he nevertheless pulled his hand free, added a last dose of lube to the length of his cock and guided the head snug against Gabe’s loosened, waiting rim. He leaned forward as he pushed in, drawing their bodies flush together in an obscenely good fit, tautly bowed at first but melting, melting—

                Gabe cursed colorfully. The stretch felt just shy of too much, he thought, as Sam rolled their hips together, testing the waters.

                Within a dozen strokes, however, Sam had the headboard meeting the wall with a force that would have the neighbors lodging official complaints by morning.

                Gabe couldn’t think about that right now though. The angel was wringing half-strangled shouts out of him with every thrust. Gabe’s own cock, trapped in the tight, sliding heat between their torsos, ached, right on the edge. He felt helpless to control the flood of feeling. He dragged his nails all across the valley of Sam’s lower back, barely registering what he was doing—

                “Gabe!” It sounded like a reprimand.

                His eyes flew open.

                “I _asked_ if I’m hurting you.”

                In a way, Sam had to know he wasn’t. If he could sense a stiff neck or broken paw from across the room, he could certainly sense a lack of real harm right now.

                “You’re not,” Gabriel gasped, moving his hands to furrow up the nape of Sam’s neck, drawing his head down until their foreheads almost touched. “You’re not.”

                Sam’s nose wrinkled in a faint, happy snarl. He slammed back into Gabe, hands digging into all the tender, vulnerable spots in his hips, his sides, even his throat. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make themselves known as Gabe’s blood rushed and tingled in the wake of their passage. He felt as if Sam was playing him like an instrument, plucking all his most primal strings, tickling all the oldest keys. And when his hand finally met Gabe’s cock, just loosely enveloping  him with a hot, slippery palm, Gabe came for him without the slightest resistance. He didn’t even try to hold back the sweet punch of cresting relief.

                The bed protested beneath them as Sam’s thrusts devolved into quick, shallow pounding and then he was burying his face in the side of Gabe’s neck with a low, almost mournful sound as he too reached a shuddering climax.

                For a few moments, Gabriel felt weightless as a ghost, the earthly sensations of sex almost an afterthought to the deep well of endorphins in which he was currently floating. He hadn’t hit on a euphoria like this in a _long_ time.

                But the heat, the sweat, and the stickiness were all there waiting for him as Sam quietly rolled to the side and Gabe caught his lost breath in the heavily sex-scented darkness.

                “Holy hell,” he rasped.

                “No kidding.”

                It took every fiber of his basic self-respect to get out of bed and take the five short steps to the bathroom to clean himself up, but Gabe did it. He took a long drink directly from the tap afterward, eyes angling up to his own dark, haggard features in the mirror. He didn’t shoot himself a smirk or a wink as he once might’ve after a round as good as that. He just stared for a moment, blinking at the face of a guy who’d just had sex with an angel.

                Sam was still there when he returned. Gabriel hadn’t actually considered that he might not be until he saw Sam's heavy form outlined on the bed and realized that the little thrill he felt was relief. He pulled up a blanket from the foot of the bed and collapsed back into his place, one leg sliding against Sam’s calf.

                “Thanks, Gabe,” Sam mumbled softly. He didn’t move his leg.

                “Thank _you_ ,” Gabe returned, turning his smile into the pillow. “’Night, Moose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not finished yet!


End file.
